On Being Vulnerable...

"I want to start a teenage revolution," I told a room full of sleepy adolescents. They sat up a little--but only a little--because it said "poetry" on the board.

"I know that somewhere along the line poetry stopped being fun or interesting or relevant, and I want to shift you a little bit closer to when it was everything. I want you and your friends to get together and battle with beats. I want you to read, admire, write and listen. I want you to have poetry parties where you get together and do nothing else but revel in the magic of language, and laugh and cry and say, OMG this is totally true!"

A few of them muffled their snickers; a few of them appeared excited; a few of them looked like they wanted to crawl back under the covers and sleep off the nightmare unfolding before them.

"Are we really going to have to memorize and recite a poem?" they asked.

"Absolutely."

"How long does it have to be?"

"How ever many lines it takes to burn itself into your thoughts, to grip your brain so tightly you can't shake it off."

"Huh" they said with their eyes; "seriously" they said with their sighs.

"It will be easy to memorize a 30 line poem if you pick something meaningful. It will be horrendously difficult to memorize a 15 line poem of flat-bottomed words. Find something you would be proud to recite at a dinner party ten years from now."

A few kids lost it...as respectfully as possible. A dinner party? Poetry? She is even crazier than we thought. I could read their minds. I knew exactly what they were thinking. I saw into their brains and their brains informed me that most of them thought I was the weirdest person ever.

And so I made myself vulnerable. I stood in front of them and took a deep breath.

"I know this is the hardest thing in the world. I've been on stage. I've memorized and recited my poetry. Last night, I decided it was only fair to memorize a poem and recite it for you today. I am going to do exactly what I'm asking you to do."

A few more rose from the slouched position.

"Touched by an Angel by Maya Angelou," I began, after explaining the significance of the poem--after telling them my friend Katherine asked me to read those words at her wedding, after telling them poetry matters outside of school too.

"We, unaccustomed to courage

Exiles from delight

Live coiled in shells of loneliness

Until love leaves its high holy temple

And comes into our sight

To liberate us into life."

Then silence swallowed me--complete and utter darkness--and I could not see the next word; I could not feel it, I could not even fake it, make it up--nothing. My mind went blank.

Blood exploded in my cheeks. This had never happened before.

Breathe.

Make this into a teachable moment.

I walked to the computer, pulled up the poem and found my cue. I read the first line and the rest rushed to my brain like a herd of zebras.

"Alright," I said with a smile, gazing out over a sea of silent 1st period students, students waiting to see how I would handle my blunder. "Do over. See, I understand how hard this is. I understand what it feels like to have your mind go blank. It happens and if it does, I will give you a do-over."

"That makes me more nervous," one student said. "If you can't do it, how can we?"

Instead of getting mad at myself, instead of admitting defeat, I inhaled, I smiled, and I began again.

"You'll be fine," I assured him, and then I repeated myself. "Touched by an Angel by Maya Angelou."

The words tumbled properly, flying along the ridges of my breath, slow and deliberate.

"We, unaccustomed to courage

Exiles from delight

Live coiled in shells of loneliness

Until love leaves its high holy temple

And comes into our sight

To liberate us into life.

Love arrives

And in its train comes ecstasies

Old memories of pleasure

Ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,

Love strikes away the chain of fear

From our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity

In the flush of love's light

We dare be brave

And suddenly we see

That love costs all we are

And ever will be

Yet it is only love

Which sets us free."

When I finished, my classroom of kind kids clapped. I laughed a little, but deep down I felt a wave of relief and a flush of frustration. How could I have messed up the moment I look forward to ever year? How could I have forgotten my lines? I love reciting poetry. I live for reciting poetry. But today, I absolutely blew it.

I finished the lesson as if my blunder never caused me to waver. When second period walked into the room, I debated whether or not I should try again. But the moment my time came, I simply took a deep breath and began.

"We, unaccustomed to courage,

Exiles from delight,

Live coiled in shells of loneliness

Until love leaves its high holy temple

And comes into our sight

To liberate us into life.

Love arrives..."

And it did...in the courage to be vulnerable, in my mistakes, in the poetry.